A devastating love story. A bewitching twist on history. A blood-drenched hunt for purpose, power and redemption.
In 1785, Professor Sebastian Grave receives the news he fears most: the terrible Beast of Gévaudan has returned, and the French countryside runs red in its wake. Sebastian knows the Beast. A monster-slayer with centuries of experience, he joined the hunt for the creature twenty years ago and watched it slaughter its way through a long and bloody winter. Even with the help of Sarmodel, the demon he plays host to, bringing the monster down nearly cost him his life.
Now, two decades later, Sebastian has been recalled to the hunt by Antoine Avenel d’Ocerne, an estranged lover who shares a dark history with the Beast and a terrible secret with Sebastian. Drawn by both the chance to finish the Beast for good and the promise of a reconciliation with Antoine, Sebastian cannot refuse.
Some monsters, it seems, simply won’t stay buried . . .

The Red Winter is due for publication on 26th February. You can pre-order your copy on Bookshop.org

This excerpt from The Red Winter is one of my favourites. The story follows the immortal Professor Sebastian Grave and his indwelling demon, Sarmodel, as they hunt the Beast of Gevaudan in pre- Revolutionary France. In this scene, Sebastian has just used his occult powers to treat the wounds of his young companion, Jacques. As Jacques recovers, Sebastian receives an unexpected visitor from his past as well as a warning, perhaps, about the future.  – Cameron Sullivan

The Red Winter

Jacques descended into a ferocious fever, as I had feared. The moon was a bare sliver, so I stoked the fire high and stayed close by him, checking the wound and his anima regularly. He had done a lot of bleeding in the last few hours, but if he survived the next day he would likely recover. I was determined to keep him alive that long at least.

The night was not to pass without interruption, however. “Are you an augur, stranger?” The Roman ghost was suddenly standing by the fire, his form shimmering like a curtain of water. I had been meditating, and it took me a few moments to interpret his Latin.

“I am, good soldier,” I said slowly. The centuries had worn on this one; he barely knew himself anymore. Aside from the frightful purple bruise, the legionnaire’s face was almost completely blank— the barest shadows marked his eyes and mouth. His scarlet tunic was dripping wet beneath a scale cuirass. I was stung a little with memory of the Empire that was, and my life there. “Do you wish to treat with me?”

“I do.” He nodded. “I beg knowledge. Will you consult the signs?”

“Knowledge has a price,” I replied. “What have you to offer?” “Salt. My full ration.”

“A fair price. I will consult.” I raised my left hand to mirror his right, feeling the familiar flush as Truth was written across our palms in otherworldly fire.

A fair price? Salt?

It was a small fortune in his day, Sarmodel.

Well even if he could get it—and let us not fool ourselves on that front—it’s worth considerably less now. And he’s got something else we can certainly use.

We don’t eat the client, Sarmodel.

We don’t eat at all! I am tired of your charity cases!

The soldier beheld the burning mark with his featureless face. “Where is my helmet?”

Oh, groaned Sarmodel, one of these.

“I see what the gods have written, in the clouds, in the wind, in the tracks of the heavens,” I said, gesturing to the stars. “I will find your answer. But tell me—how did you come to lose it?”

“It was a moment’s inattention,” he replied. “I was filling my waterskin and my helmet fell into the rapids. My patrolmen are searching for me, and I must return to them. I fear we will be surprised by the tribes if we do not move soon.”

I threw a bunch of dried herbs¹ onto the fire and took some deep breaths. My eyes rolled back to the whites and I cast my unseeing gaze heavenward. Eventually a meteor flashed through the sky and I stiffened in oracular ecstasy. “A sign has been sent!” I coughed and slumped forward. “You ask in vain; what you seek is yours already.”²

“Mine?”

“It rests with you,” I insisted gently, “where you fell.”

“You are mistaken, priest,” he answered, though his voice was not as certain as his words. “I have fallen many times in the rapids, but I have never given up the search. It has been . . . so long. I will return to my decurion.”

“I believe you fell once, good soldier,” I said, pointing to his bruised face. “But I do not believe you rose again in life. The body you knew and the thing you search for have both returned to the earth.”

He stared at the mark of Truth on his palm. “My patrol. They are not waiting?”

“They have been waiting a very long time.”

Among the willows, luminous figures were appearing, drawn by the light of the Contract. Like the legionnaire, they were indistinct. I saw white hands and bloody tunics, the flash of greaves and spattered weapons, but nothing else that spoke of the men they had once been. Leading them was a proud specter, with a crimson cloak and a plumed helmet. He stepped forward into the firelight. “We have found you at last!” The decurion was the only one of them with a face inside his helmet. His voice was heavy with relief.

“It is time to leave, Lucius.”

“I . . .” At the sound of his name, the dead legionnaire’s features suddenly sharpened, like a foggy mirror wiped clean. He was startlingly young, one of Rome’s many lost sons. The side of his head was dark and misshapen like a squashed plum. “Gods, I remember. The rocks. I did fall! I couldn’t get up and the water was so cold. You searched for me?”

The decurion nodded gravely. “Our search was brief. The tribes found us. They were many.”

“All of you.” The young man looked around the gathered specters, stricken. “You must believe I am sorry!”

The older man raised his hand and the boy fell silent. “We died in service to the Empire. Many, many years ago.” He shook his head. “We may both stop searching now.”

“Yes, Decurion.” The Contract mark grew brighter on the boy’s hand, swelling like a tiny star. When it faded, he held a dented helmet, dripping wet.

“The gods do forgive,” he said to me, looking at the helmet with wonder. “You have my thanks, Augur.”

“Divine service requires no thanks,” I replied. The mark of Truth had faded from my palm as well. The young man’s ancient ghost began to lose form altogether. His fellow patrolmen were discorporating alongside him, dissolving into bright mist among the willows.

Not so the decurion. He looked at me with black, eyeless hollows. “I know you, Augur,” he said. “You wrought a great deal of good in our Holy City. Tell me, does Rome still stand?”

I will admit I was touched, though I didn’t recognize the man. “It does, Decurion. The city has changed, but her glory is undiminished.”

“Then we have both served well,” he said with a smile. “I can leave gladly, and you have my thanks. Tell me true—are my father’s gods waiting for me, or is it the Christ?”

“The gods of Rome have moved on,” I replied gravely. “Like the city, they have changed. As for the other, I cannot say.”

“Then do me a service, if you will. I am . . . I was Aelius Agrippa of the Third Legion Italica. When next you are able, commend me to my homeland.”

“I give you my word, Decurion.”

“Again, my thanks.” He looked through me for a long moment, his form brightening toward the infinite. “One last thing, Augur: counsel from one who has seen nearly as many years as you have.” He pointed over my shoulder with a bloody finger. “Know that you are treating with a dark creature. It deceives you with every word. Be rid of it before it shows its true face.”

“Believe me, I have tried, good soldier,” I replied. “It is most tenacious.”

But the decurion was already leaving. His anima shed its human form, pulled free of its worldly moorings and returned to its purest essence, without sense or identity. He joined his soldiers as a brilliant wisp among the trees, ascending toward the reaches . . .

Finally!

Sarmodel struck like an asp. The decurion’s anima was taken in an instant, blazing briefly and silently as it was consumed. It was followed immediately by a dozen of the souls among the willows. In the Arcane light of their demise I had the impression of a hulking, many-armed monster rearing above me. I closed my eyes and waited for it to be over.

Have you no decency? I asked weakly, when the darkness returned. I could already feel new vitality flooding through my mortal tissue. He knew me!

Sarmodel’s voice was thick with satisfaction.

Not the client was all he said.

1. My secret bouquet garni, no less.

2. The temple theatrics were an act of compassion, not necessity. It is no kind-
ness to thrust self-awareness onto a ghost, especially one as old as this one.

I try to do it as gently as possible, in terms that will be understood. If that
means I have to twitch and moan a bit, I’ll put on a show.

The Red Winter is due for publication on 26th February. You can pre-order your copy on Bookshop.org